Most nights, when I climb the creaky ladder to the top bunk for evening prayers, I find Steven, my blonde-haired, blue-eyed larger-than-life eight-year-old, hiding under a mess of scattered paper airplanes, Junior Factoid books and origami. Or Iʼll find him thrashing about the upper bunk, skinny legs flailing all over the place as he squirms to avoid momʼs hugs and kisses. Thereʼs a mound of blankets and pillows without cases at the foot of Stevenʼs bed. His bright blue quilt, the one from Target with the primary-colored cars and trucks and navy border, itʼs somewhere beneath the rubble.
If Iʼm lucky, Steven will settle down long enough to demand for me to fill his volcano-red Hydro Flask thermos with fresh water.
“It doesnʼt taste right!” he petitions. Next, heʼll try to tickle me. Or heʼll slap my arm and yell “Tag! You’re it!” followed by “Tag dad!”
Before I leave the room to search for my husband, I lean over and remind our son, like I always do, that if I could choose one boy out of all the boys in the world, Iʼd choose him, every time.
Inside, however, Iʼm waving a white flag in surrender. I love my boy, of course I do. Steven is a bright child, full of life, full of love. But itʼs hard being his mom. The older he gets, the quirkier he gets, the more difficult it is to raise him. Then again, parenting Steven has always been a challenge.
Head over to Kindred Mom for the rest of the story.
